And You Were There
by At A Venture
Summary: Angel rescues Buffy, only to find out she may not want to be rescued.
1. Chapter 1

_Notes: This story takes place in a somewhat alternate universe, varying significantly from cannon. The Angel the Series cast resembles that of Season 3, with Wes, Cordy, and Angel (and without Gunn and Fred). However, the story is set five years in the future, giving the gang a bit more experience in their field. Similarly, Buffy in coming from an alternative, non-cannon universe, in which Season 7 never took place. She is dealing with many of the issues that came up for her during Season 6, mostly revolving around her revivification. Again, she is pushed forward about five years from the last moment of Season 6. Please enjoy!_

It was just another quiet night in the office. No demons on the loose, no evils lurking in the darkness; there hadn't been a phone call in weeks. Cordelia Chase shuffled a stack of manila folders from one end of the desk to the other, re-adjusting the alignment of her work space for the third time in an hour. In a smaller room, not much larger than a walk-in closet, Wesley Wyndam-Price stared at his computer screen while his fingers strummed through the pages of a manuscript coated with a layer of brown dust.

"It's too quiet, you know." Cordelia said thoughtfully as she got up from her chair and pulled open the drawer of a filing cabinet.

"Hmm?" Wesley replied with only a vague interest.

"I'm just saying. I haven't had a vision in almost a month. What's going on with the PTB anyway? What's with the dry spell?"

"Perhaps it's…" Wesley trailed off as he returned his focus to the task of copying files into a database on demons.

Cordelia leaned over Wesley's desk, stretching out as far as was possible, until her face was hidden just behind the monitor and her eyes situated just in front of the former watcher's face.

"Perhaps it's…what?" She asked, throwing Wesley into frenzy. He jumped back, dropping his glasses from the bridge of his nose. They fell precariously onto the desk, bending the wire at a peculiar angle. Wesley yelped, slamming his book shut and successfully losing the page from which he'd been working.

"Oh, damn." He muttered succinctly, staring back at Cordelia as she walked away with a smirk on her face.

From his tiny office, she made her way down a stairway, into the underbelly of the office. In many ways, it was like the original investigation office where Angel had set up shop when he'd first arrived in Los Angeles. The apartment he resided in was underground, safely away from the sunlight that crept through much of the rest of their office. The vampire had decorated with dark woods and red linens, giving the series of small rooms an air of refinement. However, Angel seemed to enjoy spending the majority of his time holed up in a corner compartment containing various equipment designed for maiming. It was there that Cordelia found him, throwing punches into a small leather speed bag attached to the ceiling.

"Well, that look's entertaining," she commented as she caught sight of him.

"Did you have a vision?" Angel asked, stopping the bag with both hands.

"And hello to you too."

"Sorry. Hello. Did you have a vision? A call? A case? Something?"

"No, not yet, but I'll let you know. Do you think we could work on that sword training stuff again?"

"Uh. Sure, why not."

Angel tore a few layers of gauzy tape from his hands before picking up the hilt of a small steel blade from its home against a stout cement wall. Cordelia reached out for the weapon, her hand wavering in the open space between them. She took the sword slowly, clenching it tightly between her fingers. In turn, Angel lifted his blade, a heavy steel scabbard raised at eye level. Yet, as he raised his eyes to face his opponent, Cordelia allowed the piece to drop. It clattered loudly against the basement floor, sending a sharp clanging echo throughout the enclosed gymnasium.

"There's an alley, on the pier. She's alone, hurt, in a lot of pain. I can't see much, but I think she's blond, dirty like she's been out on the streets."

"We're on our way." Angel grunted as he scraped up his jacket from the edge of a chair and threw it over his shoulders.

"It's coming back for her, Angel. Please hurry!" Cordelia called after him as he took off up the stairs.

Tires squealed as Angel's convertible sped out through the sunset-streaked city. In the seat beside him, Wes assembled a cross-bow, then loaded the contraption with a series of steel-tipped arrows.

"Don't take the freeway!" Wes yelped as Angel drove toward the overpass. "It'll be deadlocked at this time of day. Take Wilshire instead."

"If we get stuck behind an Escalade…" The vampire threatened with a slight growl.

"Perhaps we should have taken the sewers."

At the office, Cordelia finished putting away the weapons Angel had taken out of the cupboard. A light sigh escaped her throat as she pulled a step stool from under the sofa and leaned up to pull the first aid box from its home on top of the bookcase. The box was dented and caked with dirt, as though it had been thrown from a window into a pool of mud. Shrugging her shoulders, she thought that that particular incident was entirely possible. Strange things often seemed to happen in her life, including projectile medicine chests. The kit squeaked as she opened it, placing a variety of tools on the table beside Angel's bed. Beneath a layer of gauze, tape, scissors, and a needle and thread, lay other less common articles. Cautiously, Cordelia withdrew a small violet crystal, an amulet with an inscription in some old demonic language, and a short dagger forged from a mysterious metal unknown to most of the world.

Wes jumped forward in the seat as Angel pulled the car to an abrupt halt alongside the Pacific Park pier in Santa Monica. The park was teeming with people, loud and obnoxious. The duo struggled through them, shoving past small children with painted faces and couples with tightly linked arms.

"Lady with a baby!" Wes cried out, managing to part only two people from their path. Angel turned around briefly to shoot Wes an annoyed look.

"Well it always seems to work in the movies…" Wes pouted.

"This way!" Angel called out as he ducked through another crowd of park patrons and landed unceremoniously in a dark alley, unpopulated by visitors.

Shaded from view, dumped behind a clutter of trash bags filled with the day's scraps, a young woman was curled into a fetal position. She'd wrapped her arms pitifully around her midsection, tucked her chin against her clavicle, and thrust her body up against a clapboard wall stained with leftover decomposing waste. Even in the din lit only by a few neon signs, it was obvious that the girl was a run away. Her blond tangle of hair was stringy and dirty, as though she'd had neither the time nor the ability to wash it properly. Her clothes hung loosely from her body, giving her a malnourished appearance.

Concerned, Angel stooped down alongside her, nudging a hand against her oily crown, coaxing her to wake. She didn't stir, but a crop of hair fell from its position tucked behind her ear, revealing a ragged face, sunken cheeks, and a series of deep scratches marring her temple. Even with the markings, the obvious pain, Angel found a striking familiarity in the young woman's features. The bridge of her nose, the pout of her lips, and the softly curving brow were immediately indicative of a certain vampire slayer.

"Buffy?" Angel whispered, reaching out his palm to stroke her face with the edge of his thumb.

"We need to get out of here," Wes cautioned as he stepped up behind the crouching vampire, his hands around the base of the cross bow.

"Pull up the car, as close as you can." Angel ordered briskly. He dropped a knee against the slimy slats of the boardwalk, and slid his arms slowly beneath the woman's shoulders and knees.

"Perhaps we should call an ambulance…"

"No, no hospitals. They scare her." Angel frowned with certainty as he heaved her against his chest.

The door burst open, creaking on its hinges as it swung harshly against the wall. Cordelia cringed as she ran up the stairs, appearing in the office. She watched with eyes wide open as Angel carried a limp woman toward the stair from whence she'd come, without a word or a glance in her direction. Wes appeared in the doorway behind him. He hung the keys on a peg beside the front window, and then carefully shut the door. The two investigators exchanged looks of confusion.

"It's Buffy," Wes explained briefly. He pulled a pair of wire-rimmed, slightly askew glasses from his nose and wiped the lenses on the tail of his shirt.

"Wha…? That…that was Buffy? Buffy Summers? Vampire slayer?" Cordelia gulped, staring over her shoulder at the now empty staircase.

"We found her in the alley, on the pier. She was the woman in your vision."

"I'll go and see what he needs," Cordelia concluded, rushing down to the basement. Wes sighed as he fell into a desk chair; his eyes falling helplessly on the flashing bulb on the telephone, indicating a new message.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Cordelia hurried down the concrete stairway, her heels clacking loudly against the pavement. She scooted to a halt outside the jewel-toned red and dark wood bedroom, hanging on the frame of the makeshift doorway, one foot wedged into the room to get a better assessment of the situation.

"What does she need?" Cordelia asked with a measure of uncertainty. She peeked over one of the vampire's massive shoulders but couldn't get a glimpse of the corpse-like woman hanging from his outstretched arms.

"Bandages, antiseptic," Angel answered her without turning to face her. With every ounce of gentility he could muster, he laid the body out across his crumpled, unmade bed. The wrinkled ivory damask sheets instantly absorbed drops of blood that pooled from her miscellaneous wounds. "And clothes, Cordy," he finished abruptly.

Up in the office, Wes looked solemnly at the telephone flashing insistently on Cordelia's desk. He frowned as he picked up the receiver and pressed it under his ear and dialed the number for voicemail. Cordelia's voice spoke perkily back to him, rising and falling in an odd way, as though she were unsure what she needed to say. "_Thank you for calling Angel Investigations! We—oh, we help the helpless! Unfortunately, we are unable to take your call at this time. But, oh-but! Please leave us a message, and we'll call you right back!_" Wes frowned, shaking his head, then dialed another series of numbers and codes into the keypad.

"Um, hi. Is this where I reach Angel? Um," There was scuffling in the background, a few voices that sounded familiar but couldn't be discerned. "Um, this is Dawn, that is, um, Dawn Summers. I…" She cut off again, and the phone echoed as she cuffed her hand over the hand-set and called out to someone behind her. "I…sorry…I'll have to call back."

Wes stared blankly at the phone, working over the high-pitched young voice of a teenager and the name, Dawn Summers. Dawn…hm. Shrugging his shoulders with disinterest, he erased the message and dropped the receiver onto its hook. Whoever it was, he thought, they'd call back when they obviously had more time. It seemed strange that two women with the same last name would show up in the same day, but Summers was almost as common as Smith in the west. Uneasily, Wes headed down the stairs to put himself to better use.

"Wesley!" Cordelia called as she ran by him, throwing the keys to apartment directly at his head. He reached for them, caught them as they flew, and looked blankly at a series of unusual key-chains with odd sayings in bright purple and pink fonts. "Can you drop by my apartment and pick up some extra clothes? Sweats, tee shirts, that kind of thing."

"You need to change clothes? What? Now?" Wesley asked, confused.

"Not for me! They're for Buffy." Cordelia called back to him over her shoulder.

In the bedroom, Cordelia slid a first aid kit onto the table alongside the bed, and popped the fastener open to retrieve the goods inside. Angel, sitting alongside the unconscious Slayer, reached silently into the box and pulled out a small bottle of peroxide and a gauze cloth wrapped in sterilized packaging. The screeching of a chair filled the room as Cordelia dragged the heavy furniture across the floor and perched on top of it, a pair of steel sheers clutched in her fingers.

Buffy awakened to the _snip snip_ of the scissors cutting away her shirt. Cuts that had clotted to the fabric burned and stung, leaving her wincing, her forehead crinkling as if that action would relieve her of the pain. She stirred, tossing her head slowly against the pillow, lifting her hands to protectively cover the wounds inflicted upon her body. It seemed hours before she could affectively open her eyes, and when she did, she would have sworn they were still shut, that she was still dreaming.

A hand, gentle and light on her shoulder, confirmed otherwise. The sweet, angelic face of a familiar vampire stared down at her, his eyes dark and worn, full of concern, of worry; full of fear. He'd dressed in a dark blue shirt, but it was stained and dirty and reeked of blood and filth. Though it wasn't possible, though Angel would never show his age, he seemed to possess deep worry lines in his large forehead and around the corners of his straight mouth. Even the mess of chocolate hair that stuck out from his scalp seemed pressed down by gravity, revealing his despair.

"Where…" Buffy croaked meekly. She clutched at her abdomen and struggled to sit up, to throw her legs over the edge of the bed, to leave and continue on her way. Reflexively, Angel pressed down upon her shoulder, keeping her still. She didn't struggle against his grip, but she didn't seem relaxed by it either.

"You're in LA," Cordelia offered, placing the scissors on the table and pulling the bed sheet up to cover her revealed skin. "Angel and Wes found you on the pier."

"Cordy, could you…" Angel asked, still not turning to face her. Cordelia nodded without another word, got up from her perch, and stepped quietly from the bedroom.

"I need to go," Buffy sighed, lifting her hand to brush Angel's grip away. He removed it for her, even going so far as to help her up. Their hands brushed against one another, briefly leading the vampire back to a time in a bed very similar to this one. He frowned, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Please stay, Buffy." Angel sighed, his voice soothing but insistent. "You don't…you aren't…"

"I'm fine. Everything is just fine, okay?" The Slayer winced as she spoke, touching her fingers lightly to her ribs. The warm, wet sensation of blood oozed between her digits.

"Buffy, you aren't fine." He was frustrated now, and on his feet. "You're pale, and you look sick. When was the last time you ate? You're injured, badly, and I know—I know, you heal. But you aren't strong enough to waltz back out onto the streets looking like this."

Quivering green irises rose to meet Angel's face, to attempt to penetrate his eyes before he could register the depth of her feelings. It wouldn't work, and in some small way she knew she'd never have enough strength, enough resolve, to hide from him what she felt, and why she felt it. Inside her glare, he found her soul trembling near the surface. She was begging for help, for kindness, for someone to lean against while she dealt with the multitude of problems she'd obviously been running from. Though she'd never admit it completely, though she'd never speak the words outright, Buffy needed help, and help from the only person in the world who could understand what she was experiencing.

"Lie back down," Angel ordered her, though his voice was more relaxed. Hesitant, the Slayer complied, moving back up onto the mattress and pressing her back into the sheets. A large hand reached out to the table once again, retrieved the sheers, and continued cutting open her soiled shirt. A sigh escaped his breathless throat as he gazed down at her brassiere; a silky white selection of lingerie that might once have been beautiful in its lace and satin, but was now so marred by blood and dirt that it seemed more sad and pathetic than sensual.

"Don't look at me like that," Buffy grunted through a tight, strained mouth.

"Like what?"

"With pity; don't pity me."

"Why did you come to LA?" Angel asked deliberately, picking up the cloth and disinfectant. He poured the solution into the gauze and pressed it firmly against Buffy's torn and jagged skin. She moved to whimper, but did not utter a sound.

"It doesn't matter," she retorted, struggling to keep tears from falling down her face.

"It does matter. Buffy, tell me why you came." He looked down at her, frustration and anger unmasked in his large brown eyes. In his hand, he shifted the position of the cloth, drenching a large cut with stinging medicine. Buffy dropped her eyes from his, no longer daring to infuriate him. Any tears that had clung to her eyelashes dried up, and though the pain on the surface of her gut was intense and difficult to bear, she did not cease herself from the mattress, nor tremble, nor show her true face.

"Tell me why," Angel frowned, removing his hands from her. The cloth was soaked in her blood. He threw it against the wall with a flick of his wrist.

"I came to die."


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you know if Buffy has any relatives named Dawn?" Wesley asked as he trotted down the stairs, holding a pair of sweatpants and a small razor-back tank top over his arm. Cordelia sat silently on a chair outside of Angel's bedroom, her body doubled over, ears straining to hear the conversation in the next room. 

"Wes!" She blinked, sitting straight up and nearly falling out of her seat. "Wow, I actually own that stuff?"

"Huh? Oh, Dennis recommended, or should I say threw, them at me."

"I don't know if Buffy has any relatives except her Mom. And I think Mrs. Summers passed away,"

"Oh, yes, right. Well, there was a woman on the phone earlier…"

"Hold on," Cordelia held up a finger and rushed back to the door, pressing her ear against the wall.

"What? What's happening?" Wes asked, leaving the clothes on a sofa cushion.

"You came to…I don't understand." Angel murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Something in his voice seemed to shiver. His hands reached down to pull one small, thin palm against his chest.

"I can't live like this anymore," Buffy replied, though her energy was fading fast. She couldn't remember the last time she'd sated her hunger or thirst, the last time she'd slept for longer than an hour, the last time she'd stopped running and fighting and tempting death. "That is, if you call this living."

Her breasts, clamped tight within the soiled brassiere, rose toward Angel's chest as her lungs filled with air. By the time she exhaled, releasing the air through her nostrils, she'd fallen back into unconsciousness. Her eyes, ringed with blue violet circles, had fallen closed. The hand Angel had clamped between his fingers fell limp. Frowning, he placed her palm down against the sheets, lightly smoothing her skin with the tip of his thumb. Buffy made no move to response, no stir, no recognition at all. As quietly as he could, Angel lifted the antiseptic and another cloth. In silence, he resumed cleaning her wounds, sticky with clotted blood and grime.

"You heard everything," Angel frowned as he stuck a strip of medical tape to Buffy's flesh, securing a large square of sterile gauze over the wound that sliced her abdomen. Behind him, Cordelia hovered in the doorway, holding the clothes Wes had brought from her apartment.

"Yeah," she replied, sinking into the room and carefully shutting the door behind her.

"Tell me what to say, Cordy." At last, he turned around, slumped off the bed, and faced her. Though it wasn't obvious to the naked eye, every part of him trembled. In all the time she'd known him, all the times they'd fought and come too close to death, Cordelia had never seen him terrified.

He shuffled the soles of his shoes against the cold cement floor, skirting past Cordelia and falling into a straight-backed chair that creaked beneath his weight. Instantly, his heavy skull dropped into a pair of large, pale hands, strained with empty blue veins. His back arched forward, straining the silky cloth of his shirt, threatening to tear through the seams and expose the soft translucent skin beneath.

"How do I comfort her?" He begged. "How can I ask her to go on living?"

"I…" Cordelia sighed, placing a delicate palm on Angel's slouching shoulder. It was unusual to be speechless in times like these. For years now, she'd known just what to say to offer him comfort, even in the face of Buffy's tragic death. _You're a living, breathing -- well a living, anyway -- good guy who's still fighting and trying to help people. That's not betraying her, that's honoring her._ But what do you say when the person you love wants to die? "I don't know."

"Being chosen is a difficult path," Wes murmured behind them, lifting his eyes from the pages of a stout volume. "Buffy has dealt with a slayer's burden for much longer than any woman before her."

"What are you saying, Wes? She's due to expire?" Cordelia snapped. Beside her, the brooding vampire seemed to droop even closer to the floor.

"I'm not saying that. I just mean…perhaps we should just try to make her comfortable."

"She's not going to die," Angel growled, his voice taking on a vicious quality. "Not again." It was abrupt, how he got to his feet, when only a moment ago he'd been sinking into the hard, cold floor.

"Buffy isn't just another vampire slayer." He paused to linger in the bedroom door frame, to stare for a moment at the young woman lying between his sheets. "She's a champion."

"Even champions die, Angel." Wes spoke softly, though he closed the book and placed it calmly back on the shelf.

"Dig up the Watchers' diaries. Every single last one you can find, I want them on my desk by tomorrow night." Angel barked out, staring intently at Wes beneath a heavy, shaded brow. "Cordelia,"

"I'll get her cleaned up," Cordelia offered glumly.

"Thanks Cordy. I need to…I have some errands I need to run." Leather slapped against his spine as he heaved a jacket on, stretching the fabric out over his wide shoulders. "I'll be back soon." He paused at the stairwell, only half-listening to the sound of footsteps as Wes trekked around the office upstairs. "Call me if she wakes up."

Cool rivulets of water trickled down her skin, digging into imperfect crevices to erode away the dirty crust that had caked her flesh. Humming faintly, Cordelia dipped a small wash rag into a basin of water on the end table. Squeezing it in her fist, she wrung out the excess and swiped the cloth once more against Buffy's bare skin. Chunks of dirt, mixed with rust-scented dry blood wiped away, revealing the soft radiance of the Slayer's white skin.

Discarding the cloth, Cordelia bunched up either edge of the tank top Wes had brought from her place. Lifting Buffy's head gently, she slid the top over her crown and pulled it down around her neck, as though she were dressing a doll.

"I don't think he can watch you die again," she murmured, pulling out one of Buffy's spindly arms into its hole. "I know you came to say goodbye, but…Buffy, I've never seen him so scared."

"I didn't know where else to go," Buffy whispered hoarsely, peering up through half-lidded green eyes. Cordelia stared back down, blinking rapidly, brushing hair out of her eyes to get a better look at the corpse-like woman staring back at her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I thought if I ran far enough, I'd eventually feel alive again." Buffy continued, sitting up slowly. She pressed her hands into the mattress, squeaking the springs beneath a layer of quilted fabric. "But I'm just tired."

"Death isn't the answer, Buffy." Cordelia sighed, swinging her legs off the edge of the bed. She contemplated continuing with her thoughts or getting up to dial Angel's cell. He'd want to know she was up and talking. "I had a vision. The Powers that Be wanted Angel to find you, to rescue you."

"The only thing I want to be rescued from is this…this life."


	4. Chapter 4

The cellular phone vibrated between Cordelia's fingers, and the display flashed Angel's number over and over again. Though he had called three times in the last half hour, and though it was a break-through that Angel could work the small device so efficiently in times of crisis, Cordy couldn't bring herself to answer it. Weight sat heavily on her neck and shoulders, dragging her down into the plush sofa cushions. In the next room, behind a heavy oak sliding door, Buffy snoozed quietly. Even at a distance, Cordelia could hear her fighting demons in her sleep, thrashing among the sheets, ready to pounce into wakefulness just to avoid the battle in her brain. 

"What was the vision for, anyway?" She spoke aloud, allowing her voice to echo off the concrete walls. "She wants to die." Cordelia paused, feeling a chill dance up her spine and raise the tiny blond hairs that stuck to her tan skin. "I can't blame her."

"Nor can I," Wesley frowned, looking up from his book long enough to descend the staircase. "It says here that a slayer in Germany at the turn of the last century threw herself from a bridge on her nineteenth birthday. By that time, she had been a vampire slayer for three years. Vampires had killed most of her village, her family, and even a man she had taken an interest in. She was tormented by dreams and could no longer sleep. She knew the fight would continue; that another Slayer would be called."

"Buffy's been a slayer for almost ten years." Cordelia frowned, counting the years on her fingers. "And she's died twice."

"Yes. She's continued fighting the same fight, over and over, probably longer than any other vampire slayer in history." Wesley sat down on the arm of the sofa, precariously balanced on the edge. Closing the volume of Watcher Diaries in his arms, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small vibrating device.

"Has he been calling you as well?"

"Constantly. He's really mastered the technology," Cordelia frowned. Wesley's phone finally stopped buzzing, but automatically, Cordelia's started up again. Reluctantly, she clicked a green button on the left hand side of the screen and placed it against her ear.

"Why haven't you been answering?" Angel nearly screamed into the phone. A melody of 80's pop hits played in the background, much louder than was necessary for elevator music.

"Where are you?" Cordelia asked, responding to his question with one of her own.

"I'm at the grocery store around the corner."

"Um…why?"

"I wanted to get her something to eat. She looks like she hasn't eaten in weeks. Why didn't you answer?"

"Wes and I were studying these Watcher Diaries and I guess we got distracted."

"Do you think she'd like oatmeal?" Angel asked, though his voice was distant, as though he were speaking through a tunnel.

"What?" Cordelia squeaked into the phone.

"Oatmeal! With little chunky things in it. It says strawberry. Freeze-dried strawberry."

"It sounds terrible."

"You know, when I was alive, food was much more normal. If you wanted oatmeal, you had oatmeal. And it wasn't…why does this one have a dinosaur cartoon on it?"

"Angel, I'm hanging up. I can barely hear anything you're saying."

"Wait! Cordy!" He paused, fumbled with a box of donuts, and then returned his attention to the conversation. "Has she woken up? Have you talked to her?"

"No."

"You lied," Wes commented quietly, re-addressing the German volume. He flipped through the old pages of hand written text until he arrived at an entry he'd been studying.

"What was I supposed to say? Her story hasn't changed? She didn't ask for you? Come home right now, with your oatmeal, and sit over her, worrying!"

"Relax," Wes frowned, lifting his eyes. His glasses slid down to the end of his nose, so that he ended up peering over them at her, squinting to get a better look at her. "I wasn't accusing you of anything. I was commenting. You lied to him."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and I'll get another vision about another woman we can't really help. Then we can distract him and let this whole thing blow over."

"I guess it couldn't hurt to close your eyes and blow out some birthday candles."

"You know, I was really looking forward to another chance to celebrate my nineteenth birthday."

The sounds of crinkling plastic were effectively diminished by the whistling of an abandoned tea kettle on the small stove set up in Angel's underground apartment. Frowning, the vampire reached out a massive translucent hand and retrieved the kettle from the burner, swearing through clenched teeth when the aluminum pot scalded his palm.

"Angel?" Buffy's voice drifted out over the remaining echo of the teapot. She shuffled between the sheets and slid out onto the floor. The door creaked as she pushed it open, exited the bedroom, and padded across the uncarpeted cement to stand quietly beside the kitchen table.

"Sorry, I…maybe you should sit." Angel paused, fumbling over the words he couldn't express. His eyes traced Buffy's malnourished figure, the way she leaned over slightly and held a palm reluctantly against her ribcage. The clothes Cordelia had dressed her in hung loosely like sails in the doldrums. And he could swear that her skin was even more pale than his own.

"I've been lying down all day." Buffy answered plainly, minus the spirited quips and quick wit that he associated to her speech. Her hands dove into the plastic bag on the counter, expecting to fish out a few pints of pig's blood. Instead, she pulled out an assortment of junk foods. "What's all this?"

"I thought you might get hungry while you were…uh, recovering."

"Ooo, did you know that these snack cakes can survive an apocalypse?" Buffy chuckled half-heartedly, pulling out a saran wrapped package of pink cakes coated in coconut.

"I had no idea." Angel smirked, pouring hot tea water into a coffee mug.

"You know, I always thought milk was the only kind of drink that could go all…lumpy. Ew." Buffy frowned, crinkled her forehead, and finally stuck out her tongue. A clot of coagulated blood plopped into Angel's mug, making a loud, hollow splash. Buffy pushed the mug away in disgust, then tossed the plastic container into a trash can beside his counter.

"It's really okay. I can pour it. And you can eat this…why did I buy this?" Angel held out one of the snowball pink cakes, turning it over and over in his hand. It was lighter than a ping pong ball, and, he thought, about as edible.

"Beats me. But I think you should be the first to eat it. I don't want to die consuming something that looks like one of Cordelia's old pom poms."

Angel stopped, dropping the cake. It rolled across the table and onto the floor, finally coming to rest against the leg of a chair. Sensing a disturbance in the quiet air of the small room, Buffy set down Angel's empty, blood-soaked mug. It echoed for a moment, and then the sound petered out completely.

"I…sorry. I didn't mean to…" She frowned and let the words die out.

"I can't let you die, Buffy." The reply was obvious, unnecessary. She'd known it from the moment she'd awoken in his bed. "The Powers…Cordy's vision…they wouldn't have brought you here…"

"Willow woke me when she shouldn't have." Buffy began steadily. She leaned back against the counter, crossed her arms uneasily over her chest, and darted her eyes to the floor. "Spike once told me that I came back wrong, different somehow. And he was right. I came back incomplete." She stopped, lifting her eyes to catch his face. Angel had stopped looking at her. His gaze drifted over to the sad little snack cake resting on the floor. "For five years, I've been living day to day, trying to fix myself. I thought if I just kept moving, fighting, slaying, that eventually I'd just figure out what was wrong. What's wrong is that I'm living and I should be dead. I should be watching over you, not standing beside you. Maybe the Powers, whatever they are, maybe they brought me here so that I could say goodbye. Maybe they led me here because you're the only one who can send me back to where I need to go."

"You're asking me to kill you, Buffy." Angel spoke so softly, she wasn't sure at first that she'd heard him at all.

"I'm asking you to kill me, Angel. I'm asking you to save me."


	5. Chapter 5

  
Brief and still, an all-encompassing nothingness consumed everything, every aspect of existence. There was no color, no sound, no expression or thought. It was gorgeous in its lack of beauty, boisterous in its lack of sound, and utterly peaceful despite the disturbing lack of all things…normal. Despite the emptiness of her surroundings, a relaxing ease settled over her mind, assuring her that all was right with the world, and what was not right would soon be. It was the first time in all of her life that everything was good and okay, and it seemed proper that that reassurance should come with her death. 

The corners of his mouth creased as they drooped, leaving the impression of agonized frustration in his eternally youthful face. Angel groaned softly, just enough to vocalize his aggravation but not so much as to wake the young woman sleeping by his side. In the cool darkness, he turned the page of a leather-bound book, squinted ever-so-slightly at the smudged hand-written text, and resumed his careful study.

It seemed hours since Buffy had passed out quietly beside him, her head sinking down into his fluffy pillow, her fingers wrapping lightly around the vampire's forearm. She'd wanted to stay awake, to help him study the impressive stack of spell books and ancient texts, but sleep captured her before she could make it across the first page. He glanced over her tucked shoulder at the small digital clock on his bedside table. It beamed back at him, switching the green glowing numbers from 2:00 to 2:01. It seemed hours, but it had only been half of one. In the recesses of his mind, he wondered how Rupert Giles managed to take so much enjoyment from the relentless study of old text.

_This is Hell_. Darkness crackled across the sky, where there was no sky before. A sound like thunder splitting open the earth, where there was no earth, echoed in her ears. Pain and fear lingered on her shoulders, whispering devastation into her ears. Whatever strength she might have possessed in life had faded with her death. There was no protection from the oncoming chaos, no way to break through or fight or run away. It was with this realization that she began to scream.

The book fell from his hands, discarded, unimportant. It slammed against the floor, pages fluttering, creating a great _wham_ as it struck. Beside him, wrapped in the loose damask sheets, Buffy began to toss in her sleep. Her mouth fell open, though no sound emerged from her throat. Stringy, damp hair clung to her throat and brow, tangling her up, seemingly strangling her. She rocked back and forth upon the mattress, throwing her arms against the bed and into the air. Skin stretched taut as it healed shone with the soft green glow cast by the digital clock.

The small shaded lamps cast a sudden dazzling light over the bedroom. Angel leaned back over the Slayer, his hands on her shoulders to keep her from harming herself. The stitches in her gut were still fresh, and the bandages pasted over them were quite loose. Still, with his strong hands over her body, shoving her firmly against the bed, she fought. Sound welled up within her throat and finally wriggled out of her mouth.

"This is Hell."

Her shoulders shook as Buffy shed frustrated tears, fearful tears. Angel shook them in response, egging her out of the nightmarish sleep. Under her clothes, the muscles of her back and neck were taut, stretched to capacity and working themselves into strained, stressed knots. Angel tightened the hold, straddling her small frame to get a better grip. Again he shook her and again she elicited no response. Instead, her head lolled briefly against the pillow.

"Wake up." He paused, brushing her face with the flat of his hand. "Please…please wake up."

"Can't go back…not after this…" Buffy murmured, her eyes still shut, lips trembling as she spoke in a faraway voice. "Everything I touch…this is Hell…"

Fifteen minutes later, she was still sleeping, though soundly and in the cool darkness of the bedroom. Angel peered around the door frame at her, and then turned back, listening wordlessly to the gentleman on the other end of the phone.

"…I think this would be our best option, Angel." Wes was saying, his voice slightly sluggish.

"We need to get started as quickly as possible." Angel replied as he sat down on the edge of the sofa, holding the handset against his knee. "She's suffering."

"Yes…I'll write up a list of ingredients and have Cordelia pick them up on her way to the office. I'll stop by that shop in the industrial district and retrieve what we cannot obtain at the magic shop."

"Good, good." Angel nodded against the receiver, darting his head once again to make sure Buffy was still peacefully dreaming. "I'll see you in the morning."

The satin was warm and slightly damp against his skin, soaked through with sweat from Buffy's chaotic dreaming. Angel sighed quietly as he lay down beside her, coaxing her into the cavity of his chest with one muscular arm. His fingers drifted through the strands of her blond hair, sweeping them from her face and tucking them behind her ears. Her pulse beat loudly in his ears, struggling to live though the soul had wished to die many years before. He frowned as he tried to remember the sound of his own heart beating and could not.

"What does the spell do?" Cordelia asked as she tossed a cardboard box full of jars and brown paper packages onto her desk. Papers and file folders scattered to the floor as a gust of displaced air swept through the empty office.

"It turns back the clock to a date given in the incantation. In this case, we'll send Buffy back to the day Willow revived her." Wesley replied as he skimmed the pages of a dusty old text.

"But how can you keep Willow from doing the same thing all over again?"

"The spell is designed to grant the soul to the Powers that Be, and thus, they will keep it safe from any attempts at revivification."

"Interesting,"

"I thought so."

"Ugh, are these toad eyes?" Cordelia gagged, holding a plastic baggie out away from her face. It was filled with small marble-like eye balls. "You know, just once I'd like to do a spell that doesn't involve eyes."

"Third times the charm, right?" Buffy murmured, wrapping her arms around herself. A shiver wormed its way beneath her skin as she watched Angel sprinkle sea salt on the bare earth. He stopped, pressing one knee into the dirt, and drew his eyes up to glance at the Slayer, standing alone in the coming night.

"We don't have to do this," he murmured to her, clutching the remainder of a handful of salt in his palm. The glassy white grains stuck to his clammy skin, digging out graves in the folds of his flesh. "We can find another way…"

"There is no other way." Buffy's reply was distinct, almost cold in its expression. All emotion passed from her face. Sensitive and sweet green irises faded to hunks of featureless granite. "I have to go back."

"We'll get you there," Wes muttered, placing an uneasy hand on Buffy's elbow.

Cordelia surveyed the altar, glancing from the book's outline and description to the simplistic rendering on the bare ground. They'd found their altar in a vacant lot, set for development at least five years prior. Still, nothing had been done with the place. Patches of the ground were sprinkled with dry, stubborn grasses and weeds, but much of the rest was bare, dirty earth, a sparse amount of gravel, and the occasional dandelion. The body would need to be as close to the earth as was necessary.

Though a vampire had no use for air, Angel's breath seemed to catch in his throat, strangling off the supply of oxygen to lungs. He stumbled across the crumbling ground and caught Buffy in his arms, pulling her against his chest. Unsurprised, Buffy warmed to his grip, melting into the hold like butter in a hot pan. She tilted her head, inclining it toward his face. His eyes were glassy, building up a flow of tears that he would not shed. His arms and shoulders trembled though he held onto her as tightly as he could without breaking her.

A palm, sweaty with the nervousness of a twelve year old boy, slid beneath her skull, the thumb tucked in front of her ear to embrace her. Buffy found it difficult to meet his eyes, to face him with all the pain that had swelled up in her face. It was wrong and cruel to ask so much of him, to give him nothing in return.

"Are you still my girl?" His voice broke mid-sentence. The words tumbled out of him like shattered glass leaving the frame.

"Always," she replied, faintly.

Color drained from her face even as her lips swelled to a bright crimson, as though she had only so much blood to spare. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into a strong embrace; perhaps if he held her tight enough, she wouldn't be able to get away. Buffy's own arms, littered with scars and cuts, bandages and peeling tape, curled around his neck, holding on for fear the Reaper might drag her away before she was ready. Their lips matched perfectly, sharing their equally burdened souls. The touch was soft and light, delicate without urging. The passion of their embrace was hidden beneath the surface of a tender, longing, loving kiss.

"I'll always be your girl,"

* * *

_Stay tuned for the last chapter of **And You Were There**, coming soon!_


	6. Chapter 6

Though substantially cooled with the light evening breeze that wove through the skyscrapers of Los Angeles, the dirt maintained a level of warmth that comforted Buffy's rigid frame. Beside her, one hand clutching her clammy palm, Angel cupped the nape of her neck and eased her down against the ground. Their hands clamped tightly around one another's wrist, his blue veins standing out from a backdrop of pale skin. Fear trembled in the whites of his eyes, quaking the deep brown iris, enlarging the black hole of his pupil. Yet, Buffy showed no fear, no concern about the fate that would soon settle over her troubled soul. Instead, a relief seemed to glitter in her faded gaze, bringing a brief light.

"Don't worry," she whispered.

"He won't," Wes replied, though his voice was as choked as Angel's had been. "The spell…it turns back the clock. We'll…everything will be okay."

The pungent fragrance of licorice and dying embers drifted into the night sky, hovering over the assembled champions, an impenetrable fog. Cordelia walked slowly around Buffy's prone figure, sprinkling a powdery mixture. Behind them, Wesley opened the spell book, sliding a hand beneath the spine to keep the text propped open. He read slowly and methodically, sounding out the words he did not know before speaking them aloud. As he read, Cordelia continued to encircle the pair of heroes, salting the Slayer's body with a mixture of ingredients.

_Nos adveho pro vos , vox of vita quod nex , quod scisco ut vos ostendo sum vicis. Take animus illae tener mulier quod transporto is tergum in vestri folded manuum. Inhio quod servo is valde donum , servo suus usquequaque tutus. Averto clock ut vicis of suus nex quod servo suus tutus ex vita._

Fragments of the fading day crept beneath Buffy's falling eyelids. Within her psyche, imprinted on her brain, Angel's eternal face comforted and kept her safe. The warmth in the earth beneath her began to recede, taking with it the movement of oxygenated blood through veins and arteries. Life's hands wrapped around either side of her throat, choking out the air that might invade her flat and empty lungs. The tips of her fingers began to tingle and then go numb and cold.

"Are you still there?" Buffy gasped, though her body was unresponsive. Was she even moving, speaking, breathing? "Please, please don't leave me alone!"

"Buffy!" Angel barked, holding her hand tighter, his fingertips pushed tightly against her wrist. The body beneath them had become rigid, as though rigor mortis had set in instantaneously. The nostrils took in no breath, the lips faded to a dull, pathetic gray. Beneath the corpse, hardly a shadow of the girl it had once held, the ground began to melt. A pool of rippling mud and darkness formed beneath her. Choppy waves broke out along the surface, capturing the Slayer and dragging her down into the rotting earth.

"Don't leave me…"

Shaking erupted over every pore of his skin, throwing him to the ground, seizing every ounce of pathetic, half-hearted strength. Gentle hands slid over his back, and tear drops soaked into the rustling silk shirt that hung loose on his backside. A few feet away, the spell book fell uselessly from Wesley's hands, fluttering the pages as it rustled through the air and bounced onto the dirt.

"She's no longer suffering," Cordelia whispered through a spell of tears.

"The Powers will take care of her," Wesley added, pulling his glasses away from his face to rub the stained lenses with his shirt.

"Goodbye."

* * *

"Osiris, release her!" Xander, Anya, and Tara looked on, fear spread across their darkened faces. Beside them, enraptured by a strange crimson hue, Willow resumed her incantation. Her breath heaved raggedly from her lips as she wove through the spell, reaching out to the keepers of the dead. Around them, the carefully prepared gravesite broke out into chaos. The Buffy Bot, a protection against the creatures of the Hell Mouth, scurried into view, and in her wake she brought the chaos of demons on motorcycles.

"Willow!" Tara screamed as the riders ravaged the burial site, rolling forcefully over a small ceramic urn.

"No!" Willow cried breathlessly, falling helplessly to the damp grass as the reddish light dissipated.

_"You said it yourself, Slayer. The hardest thing in this world is to live in it."_

"Did it work?"

"I'm sorry."

And deep within the earth, six feet below the surface, a pair of frightened green eyes opened with a start. On her dry lips, there hung a single word.

"Angel…"


End file.
